Hands
by Solar-15-Storm
Summary: Once a self-acclaimed genius, his talent only exceeding his ego, Dr Stephan Strange was once the best surgeon around; until he met fate, and that dammed tree. From this point on, his hands became unusable, never to hold a scalpel again. The shake in his hands a constant reminder of his inadequacy, dare he say it – disability.


Hands

Once a self-acclaimed genius, his talent only exceeding his ego, Dr Stephan Strange was once the best surgeon around; until he met fate, and that dammed tree. From this point on, his hands became unusable, never to hold a scalpel again. The shake in his hands a constant reminder of his inadequacy, dare he say it – disability.

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I am uploading this purely because I was asked to by a friend, I probably would have up uploaded this when I wrote it in November but I couldn't find the archive. Criticism is welcomed - possibly a trigger warning for depression.

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Doctor Strange looked down upon his hands, numbness spreading from them, once his greatest tools now lay in front of him next to useless, scars from the many surgeries he had undergone stood out, raised welts across his skin creating a seemingly random canvas across his pale shaking hands. He was determined that if he could focus long enough, just concentrate, that he could get one of his hands to stay still, to stop its impudent trembling. He practiced drawing out his signature, over and over, what was once a simple effortless scrawl had now become a work of art, each movement creating pain equal to a thousand nails scratching themselves slowly across his skin.

With a violent start he threw the paper and pen across the room enjoying the resounding sound of the pen hitting the floor; ignoring the fact that the paper had landed upwards leaving his pitiful attempts for all to see. He had come here in search of a miracle cure - he had found knowledge beyond his wildest dreams. An equal trade-off? Maybe?... He could feel himself drowning under all of the knowledge, his arrogance refusing him to be able to accept that he could perform the impossible, do the undoable and be more than he ever had. He still felt the lingering anger from his incompetence turning into sharp depression as he slowly rested his head upon his hands.

His thoughts turned more and more negative, his nails digging into his arms, trying to equal out to the mental pain of his visions. Manifest it into the real world. He was drowning, mentally at least, feeling much more than wounded pride. He had once been unbeatable, the best of the best, a master in his field and now he was less than a student - unable to even cast the simplest of spells. He slid his sling ring off his fingers, a big chunky lump of metal less than useless in his grip, the only time he had ever gotten to use it correctly was in a time of pure desperation, (who teaches students by leaving them to die in the Artic? Seriously?) his sense of gratification after the event later overridden by the fact that he couldn't get it to work again, his hands wouldn't let him. Stupid, stupid, hands.

He pulled his head up again, focusing upon his watch, focussing on the engraving upon the back; he had lost his girlfriend a lifetime ago, when his ego and desperation got in the way of him treating her like a human. He couldn't just let her go. A line of emails of apology attended to this fact; not one replied to by her. He should have given up the watch long ago, it was long since broken by gangsters and now lay useless upon a still. Just like his hands, useless. A constant reminder of what he had one had, lost to him forever. The watch was a little more than sentimental after all.

Could he just lay here and break he questioned, drift away from the perceptual hell of his everyday life. Why couldn't he just give up and die. Tears slipped unaided from his eyes, making salty tracks down the sharp angle of his face and onto his long sleeves. He was too strong to cry, to proud and yet here he was the evidence made obvious by the wet tears staining his face. He wasn't strong, he was broken. Even the strongest rocks crack under pressure and he had had a lot thrust upon him in recent months. He was not strong; he was damaged; imperfect; useless. What right had he to be live, his hands were his purpose, and now – and now – they were gone…


End file.
